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I showed up fifteen minutes early this morning at the office of Thomas “Red” Perez, Secretary of Labor. I was nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs because D.O.L. had seized my onshore bank accounts and my wife’s flex fuel Vespa. D.O.L. also had placed liens on my house. In fact, when I left home at 7:00 a.m., I had to dodge big SEIU scholars in purple shirts liening on my stately front porch columns.
So, I did what my late father told me after he passed away recently, I went to the very top.
Sitting in the D.O.L. waiting room in D.C., I was surprised when the door to Secretary Perez’s private office opened and out walked Secretary of State John Kerry and Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau.
I knew John from our days together in the Olympic windsurfing tryouts, so I jumped up with a big smile, and said “Hey, Johnny,” and extended my hand.
“Je m’appelle Jean,” he said sternly, then turned to the P.M. and rattled off something in French, the only part of which I understood was “Pepe Le Pew.”
Wearing his Justin Bieber baseball cap sideways, Trudeau looked at me as if I were a worm. He reminded me that Secretary Kerry had served in Viet Nam, then said that after January 20, 2017, he and Jean were franchising stores in Quebec selling ketchup, mustard, and Hermes scarves.
“Good luck,” I said, trying to cheer up Secretary Kerry, who still had a long face. “You guys have a good meeting with Secretary Perez?”
Trudeau said something in French to Jean, and the Secretary looked down his long Gallic nose at me.
“Justin (he pronounced it joo-stan) and I were sitting delayed shiva with Secretaire Rouge to honor the death of Fidel, the Cuban Churchill.”
Trudeau nodded thoughtfully as Secretary Perez’s assistant motioned for me to follow her into the Secretary’s opulent office. I glanced at the priceless oil painting of Carmen Miranda hanging on the wall above his credenza, then noticed a heavily dented and scratched home-brew server blinking and wheezing behind the Secretary.
“Might be time to upgrade,” I said to Red, pointing to the server, which started to smoke.
“Yeah,” Red said. “GSA passed it down to me from the FBI. They said it was owned by some old lady in Chappaqua who only used it to e-mail about yoga, her daughter’s wedding, and detailed maps of the U.S.’s latest nuclear submarine deployment and troop movements in the Middle East.” He paused. “I’m very busy. What do you want?”
“D.O.L. has seized all my assets,” I said to Perez, “and I don’t know why.”
The Secretary stopped doing government business on his private e-mail account and the home brew server began to hiss. Red looked over his rimless Leon Trotsky glasses and chuckled.
“You are a member of this group Mensa, are you not?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Secretary. It’s a small chapter in my home town.”
“The name speaks for itself. MENsa. To be fair, WOMENsa should also be in the name. You are clearly discriminating against women.”
“But we have women members in our club.”
“Yes, but only five members are alleged to be women. Since your club has twenty total members, under well-settled disparate impact principles, your club must have 10.2 women as members.”
“Where would we find two-tenths of a woman?”
“We have extensive regulations to cover this,” Perez said, pointing to the 485 volume set of D.O.L. rules on the shelves of his office. “You make up the two-tenths with a very short woman. The President did this with Loretta Lynch at Justice, Janet Napolitano at DHS, Gina McCarthy at EPA, and Ernesta Moniz at Energy.”
“Uh, Secretary Perez, I think Ernest Moniz at Energy is a man.”
“You sure?” he asked. “Then why does he wear his hair like he does?”
I said I didn’t know, and Perez went to great lengths to explain to me how D.O.L.’s and H.U.D.’s disparate impact computations work.
“The Census Bureau says 63% of U.S. citizens are white, 13% black, 17% Hispanic, 5% Asian, and 1% Muslim. If your hiring or housing percentages differ, it is proof you have intentionally been discriminating on the basis of race. And, since 1% of Muslims are violent radical jihadists, you have to hire some of them, too.”
“What about the NFL?” I asked. “69% of its players are black. 75% in the NBA. Shouldn’t 63% of the NFL and NBA players be white, 17% Hispanic, and 5% Asian under your disparate impact theory?”
“Are you kidding?” he said, laughing and slapping his knee. “You’re an idiot. Everyone knows that African-Americans are better athletes than white people. And Hispanics are way too short for the NBA. Get serious.”
Unable to fight the logic of disparate impact, I signed over all my assets to D.O.L. and walked out of the office.
I spent the long trip home wondering where I could find a 4’3” radical jihadist Hispanic woman with an Afro to join our Mensa club.
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